you must lie in the bed you made.

We all remember that accusatory childhood rhyme: “Liar, liar! Pants on fire! Hanging from a telephone wire!”

Well then, light a match and string me up nice and high, because- yes- I am a big, fat liar.

In an attempt to bond at a sisterhood event with my sorority this past weekend, we were asked the question, “What is your greatest fear?” Most girls talked about their fear of failure, being alone, losing their families or dying in some horrific manner. I said I was scared of needles and feet.

Complete and total bullshit.

Yes, I have a phobia of needles and the thought of feet touching mine or being near me makes me anxious, but those are nothing compared to what I actually fear most in life. Yet, I cannot tell my greatest fear to the women that I call my sisters?

The saddest part of all is that this is nothing new for me.

I have huge trust issues and I’ve let people see the true and, usually, worst parts of myself, only to have them use those worst parts against me. Because of this, I come off as aloof and standoff-ish.

And I wonder why I feel like so many of the relationships in my life are superficial.

The darker parts of my personality, and of my life in general, would make most people squeamish and uncomfortable. Yet the biggest problem is that the worst parts of myself have so much to do with the person that I make myself to be to the rest of the world. So what is the line between helping the people in my life understand who I am and saying too much?

It’s a vicious cycle that I need to break, and I know it. And it’s time to break it now: one of my greatest fears in life is motherhood. Why? I am the youngest in my family and am not used to little people and, growing up without a mother, I have no role model to follow after.

Cycle broken? Maybe not yet, but I’m getting there.

somewhere between awkward and pretty

We all know the story “The Ugly Duckling.” Said duckling is physically and verbally abused because he’s homely. Then, said duckling matures into a beautiful swan and lives happily ever after.

This is not quite that same story.

I was an awkward kid growing up. I was never fully comfortable with myself, and the fact that I rarely spoke didn’t help much either. All through middle school and high school, I was the nice, quiet and super nerdy choir geek. It should go without saying that I never dated, was asked to homecoming or prom, or had a date to Sadie Hawkins. I was never the pretty girl.

However, this semester, thus far, has been a strange one for me. I may be maturing into a figurative swan…kind of.

Two weeks ago, I was out protesting the budget and lecturer cuts in front of Stevenson. While making a food run at the Pub, some fellow STAR staffers and I jacked a bunch of forks for the STAR lab. I volunteered to take said stolen forks to the lab.

Before I continue any further, let me paint a picture for you: I’m wearing leather biker boots, a cut-off, off-the-shoulder STAR shirt, a red makeshift bandanna around my head and I’m holding a shit ton of plastics forks. I’m obviously not dressed to impress.

So as I’m walking, some guy on a bike whizzes past me and almost hits me. He says, “Excuse me.”
I say, “Sorry.” He looks back and says, “No problem.”

Then, he stops. And then he stops me. And then he asks me, “Has anybody told you that you are very cute?”

…Um.

I politely smile and say thank you, then keep walking toward the lab. And he starts walking with me.

…Um.

He introduces himself and asks for my name. I tell him and politely shake his hand. He goes off on some tangent of, “Beautiful name, but that’s probably because it’s associated with you blah blah blah.”

And he’s still following me to the lab. Awkward silence follows.

When I finally reach the STAR lab, it happens:

“So Becca, can I have your number?”

…Um.

I was honestly speechless for a moment. This guy, who was apparently serious- not that attractive, but serious- was actually asking me for my number. I told him I don’t give my number out- I wasn’t completely lying. I don’t give my number out to random, semi-strange guys, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him that.

Then, this past weekend, I had yet another awkward encounter- this time, with a friend who I thought was just a friend who has, in the past, has made his respect for me known. Everything was all fine and dandy, until he unexpectedly kissed me and confessed that his respect and admiration for me is greater than I originally thought. And while this may not sound like an issue, let’s just say that there’s a huge conflict of interest for me.

These two instances, along with the “great thing” that I mentioned in my last post, have forced me to look at myself and wonder: how can these people like me when I don’t even like myself?

I don’t have the greatest self-confidence. Scratch that, I have terrible self-confidence. Everyone says you are your own worst critic, but I rip myself to shreds- I acknowledge every single flaw and compare myself to every smaller, thinner, blonder, tanner and more conventionally beautiful girl that I see. Being a part of Greek life, I see a lot of those girls.

Now, relating this whole thing back to the beginning of this post: I don’t consider myself a swan, physically or figuratively. Maybe I’m halfway there, in that molting stage where the duckling loses its grey downy feathers and grows these beautiful, sleek white feathers. Or maybe I’m already a swan, just wearing a downy feather dress. I don’t know.

My childhood awkwardness still shines through, years after I thought I had overcome it, and maybe it will always just be a part of me. And it’s those parts of myself that maybe I should just learn to accept because, apparently, they’re working in my favor now.

sit back and relapse.

I feel like on almost every Facebook and- here's a throwback for you- Myspace profile I have seen, people publicly declare something along the lines of, “I live my life with no regrets and I don’t care what you think of what I do! If you say otherwise, then you can go fuck yourself!”

Well, I call bullshit on those people. Why? Because I used to be one of them.

Yes, I am, secretly, a regret-oholic.

Back in high school, I said I lived life with no regrets- that was a complete lie. One, I was in high school and stupid. Two, I overthink things. After all, if I lived life with no regrets then there would be no beccanalysis.

Today, whenever there is a less than favorable situation that happens in my life, I try to approach it with a “fuck it” kind of attitude. I let things roll off me and I move on with a smile and (usually) a pair of very high heels on.

But while my skin has gotten tougher during my time at college and I am slowly recovering from my regret-oholism, I’ve learned recently that my heart still needs some hardening.

At the beginning of the semester, I had an amazing thing going for me. I don’t open my heart up very often, but this was different. I don’t usually bother with relationships because, way more often than not, they stress me out. They’re not worth my time.

Except, this was different- this was easy. While everything else in my life was driving me to the point of insanity, this was one of the most effortless things I’d ever experienced.

It was good. So good. Too good.

And that was why I ended it. And now, I cannot stop thinking about it and how I let fear ruin a perfectly good thing.

The worst part about regret is when you know the damage is done and things will never be the same. The world tells you to move on. Stand up, grow a pair and get over it.

I used to think the exact same thing. However, I realized that mentality was making me less and less human and more and more of a shell- hollow, without any substance, on the inside.

The loss of one of the few good things in my life recently has reminded me that, yes, I am human. I have emotions- more than I would like to admit to- and the fact that I no longer feel in control of them scares me.

But as I look at the bottom left-hand corner of my Facebook and see the small photo of that face just looking at me, I am trying to think of how different things would be if I had allowed myself to let go of all my fear and all my control issues.

The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. My name is Becca and I am a regret-oholic.

And, unfortunately, I have relapsed.